Carry You Home
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: Alfred's disintegrating, wasting away, but that's okay. He's getting closer to fine with every inch of fat chipped away, though it's not enough. Never enough. Anorexic!Alfred.
1. Chapter 1

Carry You Home

Alfred's disintegrating, wasting away, but that's okay. He's getting closer to fine with every inch of fat chipped away, though it's not enough. Never enough. Anorexic!Alfred.

Poor Alfred. He's the Hetalia lightning rod for the eating disorder stories…D:

I had an on/off again bulimia problem few years ago, which I realize is significantly different than anorexia nervosa, so I hope I don't offend anybody if details are inaccurate. Still, spare a hug for Alfred, kay?

May or may not continue this.

**Note**: Clearly don't owe Hetalia.

~*oOo*~

* * *

_"Hey hon, you want your usual?"_

Yes, yesyesyes **no**. _He shakes his head with a short bark of laughter. "Nah. I'm on a diet, sweetheart. Just water for me today."_

_The waitress' eyebrows disappear beneath her bangs. "Sugar honey, there ain't a lick of fat on you." She playfully prods her regular with her pen, and Alfred laughs again, though the room is steadily growing hotter and he feels like his lungs are being inflated far beyond their capacity. _

_Arthur peeks out from behind his menu, looking coolly incredulous. The two are breaking from the World Meeting at what is-**was**-Alfred's favorite restaurant. _

_"You're not having your stack of chocolate chip pancakes?" he asks, a smirk curving his lips as the waitress bustles off with Arthur's order. "I thought the world wasn't supposed to end until AFTER 2012."_

_Alfred leans back in the booth, tired, but not too tired to flick Arthur off. "Not hungry."_

_"Well, you should probably eat something. Although considering how long your 'diets' usually last, you'll probably be back here tonight for your pancakes a la mode." The man chuckles softly, and Alfred's nails dig into his palms. "I have to admit though, I am proud that you abstained from your favorite treat. Those things could put a hummingbird into a diabetic coma."_

_Arthur is proud of him. The swelling inside increases, though not necessarily in a bad way. How long has he waited for the man to say that? Over two hundred years of knowing each other, of Alfred being Arthur's ally in several wars, being the physical embodiment of the nation with the most enduring constitution to date….._

_…..and the one thing that Arthur can take pride in his former protégé in is the fact that he skipped dessert. Alfred smiles back absentmindedly, though his hands are trembling underneath the table, and he's twisted his fork into what appears to be a pretzel. _

_"Not hungry today," he says simply, glancing out the window beside their booth. Arthur's smile blanches somewhat, and his unfortunate brows furrow in confusion. _

_"Are you sure? Because you didn't really touch much of your dinner last night. You just ate a few bites before you ran off to the pool and—"_

_"Hey, did you see France this morning when we were discussing the Olympic Committee? He looked like he had a stick shoved up his ass."_

_"Well, of course he did, considering it's MY turn to host them this year," Arthur sniffs as he fussily puts his napkin on his lap. "France has hosted the Olympics five times. He's only insisting that they be routinely hosted by Greece simply because MY name won on the ballot for this year, and he's jealous!" Arthur flushed with pride, smiling smugly._

_England doesn't notice something's wrongwrongwrongdoesn' can't notice anything beyond his nose because it always goes back to him it's good that Alfred has him to talk to. _

_Arthur's proud of him. That doesn't stop the inward moaning, but it helps. He can soothe and cradle that feeling, which is like a disgruntled, suffering child. _

It's alright. You're doing **good**. Doing better, anyway.

_"Did you **see** that foppish twit during my slideshow of the stadium? He KNOWs that my opening ceremony is going to leave him and China in the dust, so naturally he'd start insisting—"_

_Arthur starts ranting on, and Alfred is relieved, because now it'll be completely useless trying to get a word in. All he'll have to do is nod now and again or murmur placating words in agreement while he lies against the soft booth, sleepysleepysleepy and eyelids extremely heavy._

_It'd be nice if he could just close his eyes and drift out the window, but he's too tired to fall asleep. He's too heavy to float, so he just sinks to the bottom of the ice water that the waitress brings him. _

_~*oOo*~_

In the beginning, it's difficult. He's not accustomed to going without, but that reminder makes him guilty enough to abstain from snacking when he's sad.

Which is most of the time these days. But it's well-deserved. It's a mite and sorry compensation for his failings, but he's _trying_.

Trying so hard. But it's not enough. The scale just continues to mock him when he anxiously hops on it, wishing that for once it would bring him good news. But he can hear it laughing even when he rushes downstairs to his basement for his exercise equipment, heart sick with dread as he pleads, to whom he doesn't know..

**_Just let me burn it off let me burn it off let me burn it off don't stay in me…._**

The gnawing at the base of his stomach is painful, but it could certainly be worse. When he thinks about breaking and filling his stomach with all the food he can lay his hands on, he goes online and looks up pictures of starving children from third-world countries—dirty, wide-eyed, and walking shadows all, with swollen tummies and pitiful ribs painfully prominent. He sees the half-dead children parading in his fitful dreams now, and he's taken to drinking almost half a gallon of water every night now to appease his wretched, spoiled stomach.

He's pathetic.

But he's America, and he's supposed to be strong. He knows his nation would cheer for him, if they only knew. The counselors and so-called "specialists" could harp on about "positive body images" as much as they liked. They were liars and hypocrites all.

His media wants him to be strong, to be thin, to be stylish, to be domineering, to be successful, to be powerful. The fatties are left to cry in the bathrooms alone when all they feel inside is small and weak and hopeless inside.

That's precisely how Alfred feels, because he _is _fat. The ring of plump love handles have been prominent since the early 20th century, and regardless of how hard he works, he can feel the _jiggling_ when he runs. When he goes without meals. When he feels the familiar sting of acid behind his throat.

Alfred is bloated. He might have muscles, but the fat is unmistakably there, making him a _disgusting disgusting unlovable fat fat stupid bastard whore slut_. The words chime sweetly in his ears even as he jogs, trying to escape them, but they chase after him anyway.

America isn't supposed to be remotely insecure about anything. He was the policeman of democracy, the one everyone in the world looked to.

And scorned and mocked. You think he doesn't know? He only has to hear it in every bathroom during a world conference, while he hides in a stall and listens in on the heartless jokes made at his expense. He could only imagine what they say about him when he's not in the area. During one such conference, where France had joked that America's population would soon need stronger aircrafts to carry its bludgeon population, America had waited until he was alone to eject the contents of his stomach into the toilet, wildly wishing he could plunge his head under and drown in his own sick.

How fitting.

He sweats on the treadmill, lifts weights until he's dry-heaving, and he is forever grabbing for a measuring tape to see if his waist is getting any smaller.

Sometimes, when Alfred's self-control is fairly good and he abstains from eating for a day or two, the relieved nation sees some results and feels better, though in reality he is physically feeling like a wreck and it's never enough. He wants more, more gone, until he is lighter than air, until he has lost enough to finally feel proud of himself.

Though what he has to feel proud about, he doesn't know…

His people have gone back on so many promises, have caused so much harm. They seize the world's resources, _burning, burning, burning_ them all away—Jesus Christ, did no one teach them how to share?—and they've thrived on years of hypocrisy. On selfishness.

But they're still _his_, and they're mostly _good, warm-hearted_ people. The idea of others wishing them death, wishing _him_ death, is agony, and he has to laugh it off while he dies a little bit more inside.

They hate him. They call his people immoral sluts, spoiled brats, and whores, yet they expect him to run to the rescue the moment a group of people decide that they can't play nice, or worse, are desperate to feed their children.

The twin scars on his neck throb as Alfred spews the half-eaten biscuit into the toilet, gasping. At least Arthur's cooking is slowly but steadily warping him of any desire to eat regularly.

And maybe then he'll be alright. Maybe then he can stand on his own two feet.

"You wouldn't deserve it in any case, Alfred…." Whispers the voices in his head as he empties out his fridge, determined to throw everything away.

~*oOo*~

_"You've been losing weight, Alfred. Is everything okay?"_

_"Just fine, Mattie, just dandy."_

_"Mmm…you look kind of peaky." His twin casts him a concerned look with those blue eyes that are wintry as opposed to Alfred's summery sky-eyes. "I can send some muffins home with you if you like…."_

_"No!" Matthew sends him a startled look and Alfred laughs, laughs, laughs. "Nah, I'm just gonna stop on a restaurant on my home, Mattie. No point."_

_"At least take some maple syrup with you."_

_"Huh? Oh, uh, no thanks—"_

_Mattie thrusts the bottle into his hands and a helpless Alfred has to thank him, although he felt like he'd just been handed a canister of arsenic. Goo. Oil. Poison. _

_When he's a few miles away, he throws the little flask outside the window and watches it disappear in a snow bank. _

Alfred, America. America, Alfred. It's hard to say which one is more pitiable, although Alfred feels like tearing at his skin when people insult his people. His young country is good, but he is not. The connection is incomprehensible to Alfred. If his country is good, and he is the country, shouldn't he be good?

But he's not. Can't be. He doesn't feel good. He just feels very old, very tired, and very thin at the edges, although he's fat. Fat, disgusting, lazy, and terrible. He needs to be strong, so that his country will love him, and believe in him to carry them through difficult times. With the economy the way it was and people growing steadily cynical, faith and patriotism have died considerably. Do so few people trust in him now? He feels the waning love in his veins, and it makes him sad, so terribly sad, so terribly worthless.

_"I can't help but imagine the diabetic fat person you're likely to be in the next few years on your strictly-hamburger diet…."_

Is that why people won't love him? He tries to be good, was one of the first countries to offer aid after the devastating earthquakes in Haiti and Japan and the 2004 tsunami that had destroyed so much. He was meant to thrive on the image of rebirth from the ashes, on beauty where there once was pain.

But looking into his mirror every morning, Alfred doesn't see the slightest sense of beauty, though he'd been called handsome quite a few times in his day. He sees the man who was forced by the foreigners who later _became him_ that chased the indigenous peoples from their lands, his lands. He sees the man who broke England's heart, even when the country became unbearable to him even as a master will become unbearable to his slave. He sees the man who failed to come in and prevent the deaths of millions in concentration camps.

Some days, it doesn't feel like there's an Alfred anymore. There's just remorse, violence, and pain.

And an overwhelming desire to make it up somehow, to be lovable. Because oh, how America—Alfred—wants to be loved! He can't love himself, but that's okay, just so long as there are people who respect him and treat him as an equal, despite his age!

Chewing on his lip, Alfred starts preparing dinner for his best friend Tony, absentmindedly moving the sizzling meat around with his spatula, he _doesn't want it it's disgusting it's sick and he's a fat bastard as it is, so he doesn't need it—_fails to notice how the alien was watching him from the table with narrowed red eyes.

~*oOo*~

_Aren't you going to eat?_

Alfred winces as he presents the platter to Tony. Tony, who is so thin, who could probably consume 7,000 calories in a day and still be fit, Tony, the one who's stayed by his side for more than fifty years. He couldn't love the alien more, but he wishes Tony would speak to him in English right now. That voice—that mysterious, lilting, and _knowing_ voice from his homeland—gets Alfred every time, and he knows it.

"Nah, I'm good, broseph," he says casually, clapping his scarlet-eyed friend on the shoulder. "I ate a lot of junk and stuff earlier. I'm full."

Tony only picks at his food, not lowering his red gaze.

_I didn't see you eat breakfast, either._

"Well, lemme tell you, that lunch at McDonalds was seriously—"

_You were in the basement all day. 'Working.'_

Alfred blinks, blanches, and the colors. "Well, I'm not hungry." He tries to turn and leave the room, but Tony seizes the startled nation by the wrist and holds tightly. Damn, but Tony has a strong grip!

The alien tilts his head, looking unhappy. _Sit and eat._ _Please. For me._

Alfred just stares at him, mouth watering, eyes stinging, yearning for Tony to understand, to not understand.

_Don't you know what you're doing to me? _

But who's thinking that?

Tony insistently drags Alfred to the table, and patiently starts spooning most of the contents of his own plate onto Alfred's empty one. The distressed country tries to protest, but Tony just abruptly claps a hand over the flustered nation's mouth, and continues what he's doing.

_You think I can't see what you're doing?_ The alien asks gently, though there is no room in his voice for argument. _Food is life, Alfred._

That's the problem. Alfred buries his face in his arms and tries not to cry as Tony slides a fork into his limp fingertips.

He isn't so certain he wants to be alive anymore.

Not that he ever has a choice in the matter, mind you.

~*oOo*~

_Slam. Slam. Slam._ Tony's little hands are pounding on the door over again. The little alien might be strong, but he isn't strong enough to break down the door, thank heavens. Alfred lies on the bathroom floor and shivers, wondering why his entire body feels so heavy. It's probably because of the stray calories he hadn't been able to purge.

Tony is swearing horribly outside the bathroom, and Alfred listens to him with vague interest as he drifts over his body, like a balloon tethered to a post.

How funny is it that the lighter he gets, the heavier he feels?

Still shivering, Alfred slowly drags himself over to the cabinet, shuddering at the feeling of the icy tiles sliding past his body. _God_, it's cold in here. He stands with difficulty and grabs out a towel before he sinks again to his knees, completely worn out. He's almost too tired to wrap the towel around himself, to offer some insulation against the freezing ground.

_Alfred, Alfred, let me in_, pleads his oldest friend. Alfred wraps the thin towel more tightly around himself and pretends he can't hear. There's a pause, and then the alien lets out a strangled stream of swearwords Alfred had no idea even existed.

_You're sick…_

Not sick. Getting stronger. The other nations saw it at the G-8 conference and were afraid. That's why they kept offering food to a country they normally loathed, just so that they could make him weak again.

_"America? Wow, you are looking skinny, aru. Would you care for a Shinatty-Chan snack, aru?"_

_France scoffed and turned a slightly worried glance towards the silent young man, who was staring deadpanned at the conference table. _

_"Mon dieu, America, you are looking like one of the ghosts you fear so much! China_ cheri,_ it is obvious this boy needs one of my scrumptious éclairs..."_

_"Lad? Are….are you doing…well?"_

_England's voice was concerned, and Alfred's not certain whether to laugh or to claw out those anxious green eyes._ Now _he notices his progress. It only took him long enough; now England can congratulate him, can validate this blank and desperate period that America has had to call normal life. His shoulders rise hopefully._

_But the man just looked at him like a dismayed parent. "Good lord Alfred, you do look like a skeleton. What has that bloody alien been feeding you? Come with me after the meeting's over, and I'll prepare some of my homemade scones…."_

_The balloons don't burst; they multiply. Russia cas a thoughtful look in America's direction. _

"Nonsense, England. Your food would kill him. Better off giving him some borsch, da? Just the thing for a malnourished, starving dog."

_"I think vurst vould do a better job, Russia," grunted Germany, frowning pensively at America. "What can't a big sausage fix?"_

_Of course, Italy needed a word in. _

_"Ve, but pasta is food for the angels!"_

_"I agree that whichever food America-san dines on for lunch today is ideal for helping him put weight back on."_

_"M-Maple…"_

_No one even noticed when America silently left the room, wondering vaguely why he couldn't walk in a straight line. _

~*oOo*~


	2. Chapter 2

**I realize that this ending might be a little sappy, as well as a little unlikely, but I do like to think that humanity has each other's backs for the most part. ^^ (Yes, I understand that thinking a certain way does not make it so.) Still, I want to thank all of you who urged me on to complete this story. I'm hoping to redefine my own relationship with food and with life. **

**Please review!  
**

_Three Weeks Ago _

~*oOo*~

_Some said the local lake had been enchanted  
Others said it must have been the weather_

The soft, pensive tone in his ears is detrimental to the pace he wants to run at. But there's only so much of Lady Gaga he can listen to whilst working out.

_The neighbors were trying to keep it quiet_

He can still faintly hear the sound of his running shoes slip-slapping against the concrete, the bustling hum of machinery throbbing in the streets, so he turns up the dial as far as it will go on the iPhone in his pocket. He glides along the dingy streets, occasionally passing by a smashed bottle, shards and powdery dust glittering. Once, he sees a small child reach out towards the pretty shards, only to have her hand slapped by her harried-looking mother, who is sending out furtive looks as she pushes her little shopping cart.

_But I swear I could hear the laughter_

Funny, hadn't he started out in one of his nicer neighborhoods? He wonders how long he's been running, but doesn't bother checking the time. It had been dark when he had started, in one of those fussy, pretty little blocks with a great deal of flowery trees and well-kept lawns and fake woods with fake little ponds and hills that looked as if they belonged on a golf course.

Alfred vaguely can recall the actual thing: green, sloping hills that went on forever, just like the stars above went on forever in the night sky before the creation of artificial stars glared them out of existence. He misses the unspoiled hills, the stars. He doesn't miss them. He wants progress, and this sullen, festering place he's in right now is certainly the antithesis of progress.

In truth, there's really no better place to be.

_So they jokingly nicknamed it the porridge  
Cause overnight that lake had turned as thick as butter  
But the local kids would still go swimming, drinking_

He passes by a sign that says _Needles Kill_. Once upon a time, it had said Drugs Kill. Has he been here before? He must have been, to know that. Or maybe it was something he read in a book once. If he's been in this specific town before, he can't recall, though he keeps his eyes down for the most part during his runs, does just enough to avoid bumping shoulders with strangers.

Besides, all these towns look the same to him: Hungry. The drug dealers on the streets, the people casting him resentful or dead-eyed stares, the soup kitchen lines extending out the doors, full of shuffling shadows peering over each other's shoulders, inching forward, anxious to seize any opportunity to move closer up in the queue. Somewhere in their midst, a baby is wailing.

_Saying that to them, it doesn't matter _

His jogging suit is baggy on his body, sticky on his sweaty skin. He runs harder and faster, trying to will away the oatmeal Tony forced him to eat that morning in his stomach, that feels like a little ball of cement in his stomach.

_If you just hold in your breath, till you come back up in full_

It's moved from black to gray, and he's passing by several tired-looking buildings with windows boarded up, their red bricks faded, dusty, chipped. He wonders why they just don't get rid of them, knock them to the ground rather than just let them stand like many of the aimless homeless wandering the streets.

_Hold it in your breath _

_Till you thought it through_

_ You fool_

But he doesn't mind them so much. He reaches into his pocket and switches the song—he didn't like this one. It was too irritatingly vague, something you didn't quite get until you listened to it a few times. And when you finally did "get it," you got depressed.

_I want to remember this _

_When I am far away_

His heart is thud-thud-thudding in his chest, and he's tired, so tired. But the moment he stops running, the moment the fat he can feel racing behind him, eying him like a vulture, will race its way to him and he'll never run again. If he stops now, there'll be no reason to start again.

And then, he'll just lie down on one of these wretched streets and wish, over and over again, that he could die now already, fade away, lose the connection to the land that was now HIS land, though it had only ever been HIM, getting heavier and heavier.

_I want to keep all the special feelings of today _

_There's a new song upon the breeze _

_The sky is sparkling blue _

He smells smog, gags, but keeps running anyhow. There are several factories in this district, belching exhaust here. It isn't as if any the civilians can do anything about it, or move away someplace else. He rips the earbuds out, and forces himself to come to a stop at a broken stoplight, alarm signals going off in his head. _What the fuck is wrong with you?_

_Keep moving. _

_KEEP MOVING! _

Panting like a dying dog, he sees a skinny little boy (_skinny, skinny, God, I'm awful but I wish I looked more like you_) looking hopefully up at the old woman holding his hand with dark eyes. "Gramma, Gramma, are we gonna have meatballs tonight?"

"Yes, sugar. Now, you be on your best behavior when Auntie Rose and Uncle Jay come over, you hear? No jumpin' round 'em asking fer presents. It's just plain rude."

"But what if they DID got me a present?"

"It's did 'get.' Remember that, you hear? Whether they did or didn't, ya'll still gotta be polite and hush yer mouth about it. And if they did get you something, you better say thank you."

"Yes, Gramma," the boy says meekly, turning his eyes towards the blinking stoplight. "Hey Gramma, can ya carry me on yer back, please?"

"Yer gettin' mighty big to be carried," the woman remarks. "And I'm gettin' mighty old fer that." But when she sees how disappointed the child is, she rolls her eyes and chuckles. "Aw, Jimmy, there's life in this old dog still. C'mere." Grunting, she lifts up the tiny boy, who is grinning hugely, lifting up his small arms to the muggy skyline as she heaves him onto her shoulders with surprising strength. When the light changes, the old woman waddles across the streets, grunting. "Well, now, Gramma thinks sonny Jimmy's as heavy as a bowlin' ball!"

Jimmy, far from looking chastised, simply howls with giggles as the old woman goes on her way, smiling like a newly crowned prince admiring his subjects. Alfred watches them go, blinking blankly when the child turns around and waves from where he is precariously perched.

"Gramma, look at that man! He's like a twig!"

"You hush your mouth boy, and don't be rude, ya here? I see you pointin' at folks again and you'll get yerself a nice whuppin.'"

"Yes, Gramma."

Only when the old woman crosses a corner does Alfred think to wave, but by now the kid is gone. Alfred stuffs his earbuds back into his ears, turns around, and starts fleeing out of the concrete jungle with all the speed he might.

_Tell me please, is this a dream come true? _

Such happiness. A meal and a ride on someone's shoulders. The kid was still living in what his newspapers generously called a cozy little corner in hell, yet he didn't have the dazed, brooding look so many children in these neighborhoods had, used to seeing bums shoot up in corners and people shooting at each other.

_I want to remember this, every wish that I see_

_How else can I know that this really happened to me? _

Yet he looked so _happy_. His eyes glowed from something so small, had clapped his hands together and skipped when his guardian assured him that yes, there would be meatballs. A strangled laugh tears from his mouth as he keeps running, running, running, one of his hands anxiously tracing his stomach and hips.

_I want to remember this _

_When the excitement's gone away _

_"Please, England, don't go, don't leave! Stay! Stay! Stay here with me!" _

_"I'm sorry. I have to get back home—there's too much work I have to do. Be a good boy, and I promise I'll come back to see you again one day soon." _

A few years later, contrary to all expectations, England _had_ come back, with a trunk full of tailored clothes four or five sizes too small for his protégé. He remembered how startled the nation had been when he'd seen just how big America had grown. England had remarked that he'd spent over a thousand years as a little child before he'd started to grow. And overnight, like a human, America was now a young man.

It had rained that night. And because England was home again, America had run to his bed, only to be turned away.

_So that I might remember all the special feelings of today_

He learned that evening that he was too big for England to hold anymore. It was years later before he learned that _nations_ were too big to be carried. At one point, he'd been small, small enough for Arthur to hoist up on his shoulders and cuddle at night when there were thoughts of creatures lurking in the darkness, or loneliness so paralyzing that all he could do was cry.

America didn't do so much of crying, anymore. The tears had stopped coming years ago, and the frozen state of being he slid into was his comfort and curse, the one thing besides Tony he had to hold onto.

_And now I don't have to pretend _

But he was too big to hold onto Tony now. Too fat. Not small enough to love.

Alfred looks at the damp, fractured sidewalk, where weeds are growing out through the cracks, white and yellow dandelions turning their sodden heads to the ground. It's rained, recently. When did that happen?

_That all is fine, and the sun's finally looking out _

He doesn't like to admit that this part of him is here. None of the nations do. But he's going to make it better. When he loses just a bit more weight, he's going to take charge of things, find a way to make both political parties in his land shut the fuck up and be happy for a change.

Maybe there will be happiness for him, too.

_And 'round the bend, I'll see what lies about. _

He wants to go home. He doesn't want to go home. There isn't anywhere to go, nowhere to be.

He comes to a stop and slowly stoops to pick one of the white dandelions.

It's not warm and fuzzy like the dandelions he remembers. This weed has been soaked through, and the seeds are only just barely clinging onto the base of the weed. He blows. Rather than twirling and spinning in a warm breeze, they just sort of ruffle, and they all come tumbling off in a soggy brown and white mess, some still obstinately clinging. Drops the weed. Keeps moving.

"Fucking toaster!" A homeless man screams at Alfred as he passes by. "You're good fer nothin'! Dat's all you'll ever be! A TOASTER!"

More press conferences, more lies. More fussing make-up specialists who say that _you've been doing beautiful things with your figure, love, but you need some more weight _and powder his face so pink he can scarcely recognize himself. Plenty of speakers who say obesity is public enemy 1# in this fine country, and now that the face of America is trying, trying so hard to change that, they're all griping and trying to shove fatty-fat-fat ice cream down his throat.

_What's it gonna take, huh?_

He's tired. He's so, so tired that he has to force himself from sitting on an old, graffiti-covered park bench (what is it with people and their need to deface everything?). If he gives in now, he knows he'll lie down and wait in a sleeplike stupor that isn't sleep. Not the deep, soft, sweet sleep he remembers having a long time ago.

When he's thin, it's gonna be a brighter life for him. He doesn't know how, but things will change for the better.

~*oOo*~

_Present Day_

_Drip_. Better. _Drip_. Better. _Drip_. Better.

_Drip, drip, drip. _

He thought he had that leak fixed months ago. He wondered what had happened.

_A few more pounds and I've won. Everything will be just like it was before, but_ better.

He still can't lift his head from the floor. Despite the fact that he's been lying here for what feels like hours, the floor simply won't warm up beneath him. Alfred weighs the pros and cons of leaving the bathroom and shuffling off to bed. Con: Alfred's too exhausted to move, to want to move. Con: Tony will be waiting, likely armed with a box of pizza or bag of burgers he think will stem the hopelessness rather than ignite a new ire, erase the success that he's clinging to like a frightened child will cling to a blanket.

Con: Even if he does manage to slide under the sheets, he'll still be cold. Tony can pile as many quilts on him as he likes, but it'll be a suffocating weight that doesn't make him comfortable, doesn't alleviate the throbbing headache he can feel pulsating rhythmically through his aching head. Doesn't make him warm either way.

The bathroom it is.

Tony's repetitive hammering at the door has finally stopped. He wonders if the alien wandered off to play video games or is still lying in wait. He hopes it's the former. Any second now, he is going to stand up, march right out, assure his friend that there's nothing to worry about, and he'll go out and conquer the world.

Just as soon as it stops spinning.

_Breathe in, breathe out. _Moving forward. Even if he would very much like to go back. Back to timelessness where none of this mattered, or at least didn't matter so _much_.

He's sure such a time existed. He isn't quite certain how he survived it.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._ His watch, which now dangles from his wrist, has a very loud and prominent ticking sound that's both a little annoying and a little soothing at the same time. Alfred listens to his heart _shoomf, shoomf, shoomf_, perhaps a little more slowly than it once did, and he tries to will the pacing of his heart to be in synch with the ticking of his watch.

He wants food. He doesn't want to care. He wants to stop being such a baby. But he'll be up in a minute or so.

_Tick_. He's tired. _Drip_. He feels like sleeping. _Tick._ He can't sleep. _Drip._ He dozes, in and out of reality and waking dreams, where he's strong and not slipping, or at least has perfected a poker face.

They're jealous. The other nations. He's regaining his dignity with every pound lost. _Tick._ In five minutes, he's going to get up and call every one of them, laugh at them all.

He wants someone to come through the door, end this. Even if he would have hated them for it, for trying to ruin his happiness, this is hell.

This is heaven.

But there's no other place to be. No one who wants him. No one has ever wanted 'him,' him, Alfred, not America—but Tony.

So many more people will want him more when he's successful. When he's thinner. And then, he can forget the antidepressants (though in all fairness, he already dumped them; they don't work anyhow) and just be happy. Stop moving. But have the freedom to move wherever he wants to, instead of being rooted to this one land, this duty, this hell, this cold little bathroom.

_Everything will be better when I'm thinner_.

Somewhere far away, something is hammering, hammering away. When it doesn't stop, Alfred tugs his arms over his head and tries to block it out. Tony doesn't make so much ruckus (although he will occasionally have a temper tantrum and start cursing up a storm), so he wonders at the sound, not really caring.

At least until he hears: "You stupid prat, why didn't you call me earlier?"

Shivering on the bathroom floor, Alfred freezes. He hears some strangled obscenities from downstairs, both from Tony and England, and soon, there's the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs.

"AMERICA!"

"Where is he?" Matthew nervously asks from somewhere downstairs.

_Oh, God_. Traitor. Tony betrayed him, was attempting to guilt-trip him. Shock and bewilderment and fear and hurt charged through him, and Alfred most unwillingly staggered to his feet, staring at the wide-eyed corpse staring at him from the mirror.

It's a lie. He's fine. Illuminated by a secret to make him better. Stronger. Something—someone— that could be loved, not hashed by his own citizens or treated like a child or the world's police or slave or _hated _so much, least of all by himself—

His fists slam into the mirror, and the glass shatters in a blur of falling shards, and soon there's hammering on the door.

"AMERICA! America, open the door right now, or I'll smash it down!"

Smash. To break, to crush, or to destroy. Alfred stares down at the sea of glass shards at his feet and wonders at how pretty they are, how red some of them are, how his hands hurt and how his feet hurt and how exhausted he is and he sinks to his knees and everything burns, rips, blood, blood, the warm rush of blood—

_Help me_.

"Don't you have a key, alien?!" England growled.

_Go away. _

"America, please! It's your brother!" How like Canada, pulling _that_ card, when the guy didn't even like him. Alfred's eyes narrow, bloody tears trickling down his face.

More footsteps on the stairs.

"L'Amerique!"

Oh, God, they'd conned France into coming, too?

_Stay away_.

"Mei Yan!"

"Amerika!"

_Help me_.

His hands dig into the glass, and his stomach moans with hunger, his heart with despair.

_None of you actually give a shit about me. You're just here to make you feel better about yourselves, cementing relationships with my goddamned self. _

_He never needed them. They never needed him, pardoning for economic reasons. _

_No one in this awful world needs anyone. _

_So he would stop trying altogether. Why the fuck not? _

England is striking the door with all of his might, and its shaking dangerously on its hinges. Somewhere behind him, Germany huffs.

"Move!"

"Sod off!" England snarls. "Alfred, Alfred, please open the door, God, boy, you're scaring me, you're scaring us all, I love you—Alfred—!"

_I love you._ America stiffens, a hot gasp spilling out, the way blood dewed on his arms.

_I love you._ How many centuries has it been since he'd heard the country say _that_? A battlefield, where England was begging him to reconsider his plans for independence, to remain under his care, _I love you_, he shouldn't need the validation of anyone to want to live, least of all England's but—

_I love you_.

The door comes flying down, and America's eyes are flooded with tears.

_I love you. _

England starts screaming, and there are arms at his shoulders now, pulling him out of the glassy hell, and there are half a dozen voices thundering, squawking, fluttering, and Germany's voice is dominating them all as someone starts pulling the shards from the open wounds—

Happiness. Even as he's bleeding all over the place, even as England is berating him and calling him an idiot and burying his face in his neck and crying, America feels as if he's sank into some warm relief constituted by countless concerned arms.

Sometime that evening, his eyes find Tony's, and the alien's mutinous expression melts just a bit into a softness that says without saying anything:

_It's okay_.

_I love you. _

Arthur isn't the only who cries a lot that evening.

~*oOo*~

**Yes, sentimental like I said. Please don't flame me for it—I just didn't wanna leave Alfred alone like that. But hell, everyone needs love. This is a very difficult and slippery slope to climb up, and it's gonna take awhile before Alfred gets back to speed, with or without help.  
**

**Fight on, America, fight on!  
**


End file.
